My Friend Eric

By Blaze Robb

Eric is a business major. He talks to me about “wealth.”

Which checks out.

Money is one of the many aspirations you gain when raised in a town where “class struggle” means trailer parks v. mobile homes.

When over for one of his many childhood sleepovers at my house, he cried into the arms of my grandmother while I showered. Hidden under his shirt, a bruise had broken out on his back. A bruise from the impact of a second wedding ring. Delivered by his mother’s hand.

Eric doesn’t cry anymore.

He says he “can’t.”

I try to understand, but I cannot relate. I cry often.

When we mowed lawns over summer, he handled the money.

I knew how to do little more than watch him fix our tools.

I handled the people.

Sometimes, he would stay in the truck while I was shaking hands.

Eric thinks my writing will take me wherever I want to go.

I think “wealth” is coming his way.

I hope he stumbles across something worthwhile to spend it on. I don’t have that problem. He gives me plenty to write about.